I steel myself for the familiar
--the dark cylinders
of half-smoked cigarettes,
I can feel it in my lungs.
"Magic begins with blood," you said.
"Don't get stuck on a dream."
That could never be.
I dream of someone new each time.
"For me, I'm your sorrow
calling in your dreams.
For me, I'm your shadow
howling in the streets."
My hands, they close
around the throat,
until that whispered plea
becomes a silent sonnet.
"You'll be happier in your grave."
May 6, 2020
May 6, 2020 at 2:36 AM UTC
I steel myself for the familiar
--the dark cylinders
of half-smoked cigarettes,
I can feel it in my lungs.
"Magic begins with blood," you said.
"Don't get stuck on a dream."
That could never be.
I dream of someone new each time.
"For me, I'm your sorrow
calling in your dreams.
For me, I'm your shadow
howling in the streets."
My hands, they close
around the throat,
until that whispered plea
becomes a silent sonnet.
"You'll be happier in your grave."
Request permission to use this poem